Lily's Rants
by Quintrisha
Summary: The Anger Management Journal of Lily Evans.
1. Default Chapter

Lily's Rants: The Anger Management Journal of Lily Evans

Compiled by Drs. Lombard and Rahsensteele, M.O.M. Department of Historical Artifacts

Forward by Dr. Deaghlan Rahsensteele, M.O.M

**Forward**

Before you begin your discovery of Lily Evans, there are one or two things that ought to be mentioned. 

The contents of this journal remain unchanged since the time Lily commenced her writing, in 1976. A number of grammatical errors were amended, as would be presumed, though our editors had difficulty finding any at all. Lily seemed to be, despite all else, impeccable in her spelling and grammar. Thus, any errors you find of this sort are most likely the fault of our editors. 

Furthermore, the names listed below have been changed at the discretion of whom Lily wrote. Pseudonyms have been chosen at random to appropriately conceal their true identity.

**Sulla Jacobs**

**Parsley Piebrittle **

**Professor Salvidore**

**Vilia Bankhead**

**L'Angley**

With that set aside, I believe I may now progress in the manner of which I find most appealing. 

Being nine years Lily's junior, I never had the opportunity to be her classmate and to watch her grow into the woman she became: not something she would be disappointed at, I don't think. I did, however, hear stories; tales tall and short were flung from Common Room to Common Room when it came to the infamous Lily Evans, straight from the mouths those Gryffindors old enough to recall her attendance. The horrific yarns they had to weave, told with little accuracy, gave me more reason than my fellow colleagues to believe what the journal revealed. All the same, even I was taken aback at what it possessed. 

For the sake of history, Dr. Lombard and I have done everything in our power to leave the diary just as Lily did, from cover to cover. This comes at a price. Lily Evans was a more rebellious creature than any of us could have guessed, and did not hesitate to act upon it. Consider this a warning, here and now: this was her Anger Management Journal. That it be used for the expression of her anger was the direct intention of her counselor, Dr. Chang, M.O.M. If there's an entry without at least one curse word in it, I certainly haven't seen it.  

It is requested; then, that you remove any preconceptions you may hold concerning Lily Evans. For years it has been public opinion that the wife of James Potter was a quiet, homely woman, whose life was built upon the strength of her relationships. 

This journal, I hope, will set the record straight.  

Sincerely, 

Deaghlan Rahsensteele, M.O.M

**£**

**This edition of Lily's Rants: The Anger Management Journal of Lily Evans ****is dedicated to Albus Dumbledore, who is solely responsible for our understanding of Lily.**

**Special thanks also go to St. Mungo's Hospital of Magical Maladies. **

**£**


	2. Introductory Rants

_We're only human, baby  
We walk on broken ground  
We lose our way  
We come unwound  
We'll turn in circles, baby  
We're never satisfied  
We'll fall from grace  
Forget we can fly  
But through all the tears that we cried  
We'll survive_

_Saints and Angels, _Sarah Evans

**Introductory Rants **

I would, first and foremost, like to curse whoever is to blame for the existence of writer's block. I'm pretty sure it has something to do with Adam, and Eve, and with that goddamned apple, but God didn't bother having it mentioned in Genesis, so you really can't be all too sure. I mean, even if Adam and Eve had decided to choke the snake rather than give in to its incessant goading, I am quite sure that writer's block would have still had its verve. I figure they must have experienced it, in the Garden of Eden. Why else would they have named a color after a fruit, or vice versa? It's simple: they were struck by the dreaded lightning bolt writers everywhere have come to know as writer's block. Or at least one of them was: maybe the other one was just a natural-born idiot. Eve, probably—not to knock the feminist movement, but, honestly, when the neighborhood garden snake starts forcing food down your throat, it should ring a bell that _something_ unusual is going on. 

Nevertheless, poor Eve and/or poor Adam, whatever the situation may be, was struck with writer's block, so it's evident that _they_ aren't the guilty party. Which leads an observer—me-- to believe that it's God's fault, and that _He's _the one I should be cursing to Pluto. But, since He takes the wrap for so many things as it is, even if this one actually _is_ his fault, I'll let him off the hook, just this once.  

And if it _wasn't_ God: well, they'll be hearing from me.

In the meanwhile, I, secondly, threaten to place _Crucio _on the idiot who just _insisted_ that Hogwarts come without central heating. Sure, there are fireplaces all over, but they don't make up for the fact that my fingers stiffen like a guy's dick as I make my way through the halls every morning and early afternoon. 

Shocked that I'd use that kind of a metaphor? Well, if it's of any consolation, I'm shocked that I wrote it. I even considered _not_ writing it, but then I saw the shining light of opportunity in explaining all of this, and I just couldn't leave it unsaid. 

So, whomever you are, git who's too stuck-up in his own pureblooded pride to even _consider_ the use muggle insulation as a solution to my dilemma: you have to read through this entire rant. And the rants that follow. Congratulations, bastard. 

Thirdly, and, possibly finally, I would like to eternally damn that son of a bitch who had the nerve to write me a love note. Yes, you know whom you are—probably the son of that one wizard on the school board standing in the between me and my furnace, and quite likely the descendant of the guy who came up with writer's block. Yes, you. How dare you go and ruin my perfectly good reputation by writing me something as absurd, as silly, as positively ridiculous as a _love note._ I'll never live this down: _years _of work, building up my reputation and fine-tuning it, all gone down the drain because you slipped a love note into my Transfiguration book. Now, I _may_ have been able to arrange it so that no one ever knew the wiser. I may have been able to save myself from one of Monica's infamous makeovers and numerous 'knowing smiles' from the surprisingly naïve Hogwarts staff who really don't 'know' much of anything at all. 

But, _no, _you had to slip it into the very same Transfiguration book that Sirius Black borrowed and lent to Marsdi Marshalls, so that she could leave it in the Quidditch stands for Jase Jessebes to find during his snog session with Ivy-Grace McKinnley who could, and did, drop it off in the girl's dormitory with Parsley Piebrittle, who wasted no time in sharing it with Shawna Lemke, Sulla Jacobs, Jallene McCaleb and Monica Patil, and let's face it, once Monica Patil hears something worth her while—which means that it _isn't_ worth her while, _or _anyone else's, most of the time—it's only a matter of hours until the rest of the school has heard about it, five other renditions have been produced, and the Drama Club is outlining a script out of it for their next big production.

So yes, _you_, damned son of a bitch, I'm not quite sure how this is all of your fault, as you had nothing to do with the great "Passing of the Transfiguration Book" as far as I'm aware, but you should have had more common sense than to write me a love note in the first place, so damn you anyway. 

And I would, as a fourth, like whoever created _Pauschdriatic Perfume _to fuck him or herself into a shoebox. I'm not exactly sure how you would go about doing this, or how big of a shoebox you'd need for it to be accomplished, but I sure hope you're up for a challenge. It's because of you, bloody perfume creator, that I have a rash with red spots the size of a little boy's marbles—and you can interpret that however you'd like—running up and down my arms, neck, legs, fingers, and I swear there's one in my mouth. If you could have been so kind as to keep your perfume free of Occamy feather, I would not have been ravished with the previously stated atrocity the minute I walked into my dormitory. Yes, I know it's not _your _fault my roommates are perfume-spraying nitwits, but if you had kept the bloody feather out of your potion, the matter would have been avoided altogether. Yes, yes, I _hear_ your offers to buy me free cosmetics for a month, but, miss—or sir, whichever—I think you need to get one thing straight: I do not _do _makeup. Ever. So shut up and keep your products away from me. 

As a fifth point, I feel that this rant would missing a touch of something if I did not mention you, sitting in the back, who wrote the lyrics accompanying the teeny-bopper hit _Lover Divine. _Consider yourself permanently deformed if you ever get the misfortune of meeting me. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you", says the Good Book; if I had written such awful lyrics of these I would want to be confronted with them. So, here you are: a snippet of the lyrics, recopied.  

_Lover divine,_

_Sweet lover of mine,_

_Hold me close to you, dear,_

_My sweetest of wines, _

_Let my lips lock with yours, _

_Let my lips taste so sweet,_

_Let me move with you, _

_My lover, my beat._

Now that my mouth is washed out of any left-behind vomit, I can explain to you, in full, why your security wizards may want to start searching for a new day job. 

First of all, there's the fact that Monica and Crew were singing it in their sleep for weeks after the Valentine's Ball—a rant I'll get to in a moment, mind you. A certain professor is not to be left wanting in firm lashings for her suggestion of a stupid ball like that. 

At the moment, it's the songwriter losing his ear—no, his fingers, and perhaps his tongue, as well, for daring to mutilate the public with such an irritating rhyming scheme. To say that my housemates were singing it in their sleep is an exaggeration, I'll admit. They were not only singing the song in their sleep, but in between classes, in between meals, in the showers, in the dormitories—everywhere. Everywhere. _For weeks._ And let me tell you something, whatever your name is: it's a rare witch who can carry a tune. 

Oh, but then there's reason number two. Can't leave out _reason number two_, because it's the most important one of all: I got my first kiss at the Valentine's Ball.

Y'know that? 

My. First. Kiss. 

I hadn't gotten kissed for the last sixteen years of my life, and I'd damn well expected to keep it that way. Let me tell you, none of the blokes in our year argued. Not after what happened to Beaucham Berkley when he tried to hold my hand in third year, or to Marley Perks when he put his arm around my shoulder in fourth, or any of the other guys who tried to make a move on me and ended up mortally wounded. You see, I'm not an ugly girl or anything: I simply don't have a liking for any of the guys in our year. 

Or any of the girls, for that matter. 

Just call me anti-social.

Let's return to my story, shall we? Yes, yes, I was at the Valentine's Ball. Not out of my own choice, mind you: I had broken a fifth year's nose the week before, and it was a bit of a negotiation. If I showed up at the ball, and stayed there for its entirety, Professor McGonagall wouldn't assign me another detention. So I agreed, though reluctantly: I honestly would have chosen to scrub the dungeons over wearing dress robes, but Professor McGonagall was making _such _pains to be kind, and I just didn't have the heart to turn her down.

So I'm there, and I'm miserable: Monica and Crew had forced me into a chair and curled my hair that afternoon—part of McGonagall's punishment—applied clumps of makeup to my face, lent me their jewelry and sandals, _and_ gave me both a manicure _and_ a pedicure. 

I looked gorgeous: _not _one of my prouder moments. I was sitting at a table full of Gryffindors who were sitting and chatting about all sorts of things: the best way to dry their hair, mainly. To my supreme luck, I had gotten out of actually contributing to the conversation. 

Then your song comes on. Your _blasted _song. 

Everyone gets up to dance, naturally. Monica and Crew paired themselves off with the Gryffindor boys, so they were dropping like flies in their respective couples. It looked like I might sneak out with a couple minutes to myself, in peace and quiet. 

James _Prince of His Transfigured Pincushion _Potter, outstretches his hand in front of me, ruining a perfect moment and expecting me to take it. I was about to say no, I really was; I had already estimated the number of his toes I would break in my refusal. However, I let my eyes drift a bit to the left to see Sulla, hand on her hip, waiting for James to ask _her_ to dance, and I just couldn't wait to get her all in a huff. So I gave him my hand, and we went out. People were staring, girls were giggling—the whole bit. Your song is _still _playing. I'm avoiding eye contact with James, who is staring at me… _weirdly._ I glare at him. Thus, he kisses me. What logic, I should have known that would happen. _Right there, in the middle of your blasted song. _

What did I do? I stomped on his foot, that's what. You'll be happy to hear that I broke four out of his five toes on that foot, which is significantly better than I had estimated.  

Returning to the main idea: why is this your fault? Your gushy song put James in a sappy mood; the kind of mood where you kiss people. 

Here's your chance, Professor Salvidore. I am, as a sixth point, asking you to go have a staring contest with a Basilisk, because if it weren't for your stupid ball idea I wouldn't have had to sit through a three-hour discussion on blow-drying techniques, muggle andmagical, instead of happily scrubbing the dungeon floors. It's because of you that I had to watch the Gryffindor sixth years dote on each other in such a sickening manner that even you, Hailed Queen of the Pink Hearts, would have been disgusted. It's because of your damned ball that I was made up like a fairy princess—the number of Cinderella comparisons I was pegged with after that night is appalling—and made to dance with that bastard, Prince Charming. Your bloody ball is the reason I am the talk of the school at the moment, and the reason I was _kissed, _by _James Potter,_ something I never asked for and every other girl in Hogwarts did. Go give it to them, damn it, and leave me alone. 

Not to mention that I'm probably blinded by now. The school was so pink I swear I'll never recover. My dormitory won't either: word is you're the one that suggested to Monica and Crew that they spray that suicidal poison, _Pauschdriatic Perfume, _on every inch of the Gryffindor Tower in order to 'get into the spirit of things'. I believe it was _also _you who left bottle of thirty-day nail polish the size of Merlin's wand—and you can take _that _however you'd like, as well—on each of our beds as a surprise. 

Well, let me tell you something, Salvidore: unsuspectingly, I threw my bag onto the bed and, as a result, onto the bottle, and guess what happened to it? 

_It broke. _It's currently drenching my bed, my bag, and all of the books that were _in_ my bag. 

_Now, _what do you suppose I have to do? Carry around a glitter-covered bag? Use glitter-covered books? 

Right in one. Do you know what else? 

_I have to sleep in glitter. _

Did you hear that? 

_I _have_ to _sleep_ in glitter. _

Damn you, Professor Salvidore. 

I believe that's enough for today. 

Signed,

Lily Evans 


End file.
